


zero sum

by dulcebase



Category: Don't Starve (Video Game)
Genre: Drunk Sex, Gift Giving, M/M, character regression, no capitalization, non-sensual massage, relationship snapshots, who the hell is william carter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-11
Updated: 2018-05-11
Packaged: 2019-05-05 05:37:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14610567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dulcebase/pseuds/dulcebase
Summary: ‘this is for warmth,’ he says every time, huddling close at night, gangly limbs twining around a much smaller frame. it sounds more and more empty.autumn, to spring. they learn each other.





	zero sum

it is autumn now, deep in the dying season — the world ablaze with slow demise, the dread of winter thick in each mild breeze. there is litter, now, countless useless treasures. in the stretching evenings, when the scientist disappears to collect the trinkets for _curiosity’s sake,_ he curses the power that allowed all he had built to fall into rubbish. they have chests full of them. it’s all garbage.

 when he returns, every night, it is to bitter glances and mutterings of r _eal progress,_ sour sneers and disregard for the joy that sparkles in his eyes from breaking the mundanity of survival. during the witching hours, he dissects his toys with the delight of discovering the mechanical, and a childlike joy in even the useless knickknacks.

 ‘where do you think they come from?’ he asks.

 ‘wherever things are lost. i would have never allowed such litter in my world.’ such is always the same response.

the night he comes without a full pack is the one he comes without joy in his eyes. in his hands, the new treasure glints by firelight, and from across the pit the collector can feel eyes burning into him.

‘someone’s probably missing these,’ he says, the fire magnified by the glass he holds up to its light. the splatter of old blood on its cracked left lens leaves splotchy shadows on his face. ‘not me. my vision is perfect, you know.’ 

‘do you expect me to bow to your ability to see, higgsbury?’ 

venom met with a smirk. ‘only because you can’t.’ he flips the spectacles — cokebottle frames damaged but not broken, thick glass betraying strong prescription. he closes an eye, smiles at his attempt to line up the silhouette with the shadows on the magician’s face. he only scowls through them.  ‘if you’re so blind, why don’t you take them?’

‘i don’t need assistance to see.’

‘you do.’

and the silence, the tension. far away, long ago, a pair of spectacles is knocked violently into the hard-packed sand, fresh with blood from the wearer’s fall. 

‘if i take them and i see another one of those blasted radios at this camp, i’ll shove it so far down your throat you’ll speak static for weeks. is that clear?’ 

‘i should really know better,’ he says, with a smile, ‘than to make deals with you.’

the crack just misses the corner of his eye when he wears them. as he turns his head to check the cookpot, the scientist — ever observant — realizes he has never noticed the scar on the man’s left temple, just hidden by slow-receding hairline, not until he sees how perfectly it lines up with the splatter on the forgotten spectacles.

 it is the first time wilson does not see the magician squint. 

* * *

when winter comes, it is brutal. it is a winter of spite — snow falling heavy, oppressive, the cold bitter and cruel and punishing without protection against it. the tent is lined in rabbit fur, and it is not yet enough. 

‘this is for warmth,’ he says every time, huddling close at night, gangly limbs twining around a much smaller frame. it sounds more and more empty.

it is late autumn when the scientist makes the discovery; berries fermented may last longer, and keep precious sugars in the dead of winter. juicy berries fermented, stored in a chest re-worked and re-purposed as a barrel. in the worst of storms, after a blissfully short excuse for a yuletide, the barrel’s seal is broken.

it is a sweet wine, yet not a smooth one — it feels warm and comforting before it saps the heat. when the hollowed-out potato cups run empty, not a word is spoken in the pelt-lined tent, only the slipping weight of a small frame on a lap that seems too thin to support it. there is no justification, this time. 

the kisses are hesitant. the touches are not. when they speak, it is in whispers neither will remember in the morning. 

there are gasps in every touch to neglected, oversensitive skin. there is a meaningless whisper to every roll of the hips. they come together desperate, lonely men. they are each the feast to the other's starvation. 

in the morning, their limbs are still tangled in a way that betrays an intimacy neither wants to admit just yet. 

* * *

 

touch is a sacred thing.

it happens on quiet nights, fire blazing, starting small and meaningless. a brush of the hand, a grasp of the wrist — it is not always felt. the scientist has learned, by now, through tactile exploration which places are sensitive, which ignite to the smallest touches, and which are numbed, scarred over from biting restraints or a constant soreness that overrides any other feeling. in turn, he has let the zones of his own skin be known.

the soreness comes from the ribs, aching, pressing. it spreads from the bust to the back, a bone-deep ache that will not leave. he rarely complains. the alternative, after all, seems worse. better a physical discomfort than one in the head, and he has suffered so much of both already. 

spring is coming, now, barreling forward in clouds and thunder, and when the humidity becomes too much to bear, the rain breaks through the last of winter’s slush just as the air crackles with the sound of moving joints. they are both sore. neither will admit it.

the scientist cannot reach his back. he tries, fruitlessly, but the ache is too great to bear, and every time his arms stretch to rub against his spine, he stops. minutes pass of useless attempts before he gives up, whining in exasperation, blind to the audience his endeavor has gathered. 

‘let me.’ gentle words, uncharacteristic, the voice familiar but its accent not so much — a change has been happening, and in the kindness, there is at last an audible hint. he scarcely recognizes it before he can feel the looming over his body, the sensation of having a person sit so close to you. 

if it is one thing about magic it is this: sleight of hand makes for deft fingers, and they are long as they are nimble. the pressure is at first gentle, stroking ribs through the fabric as if testing to feel the bone. when they begin to rub at the muscle, he tenses at first from the pain, then loosens from the relief of massage. by the time there are thumbs pressing lightly on each side of his spine, he is humming softly in contentment. 

every so often, his knuckles crack; yet the melody of his disused joints are impossible to distinguish from the popping of the fire. touch, the magician knows, is sacred. he gives as much a gift as he takes, relishing in the simple pleasure of human contact. 

it is perhaps unconscious, how his lips rest at the junction of the neck and shoulder when he rests his head. it is perhaps unnoticed, how he pulls close in even a small service, a reminder of a sort of mutual possession. the sensation of touching someone, even through layers of cloth, clears all else from his fracturing mind.

they part only when the fire begins to fade.

they do not speak of it.

 

**Author's Note:**

> this was based off of rps so that's where wilson's shitty 20th century binder and maxwell's blindness without his gwasses comes from
> 
> imagine if cyclum took a really long time and they were forced to cope with each other and form a strong bonded relationship based on mutual need wow


End file.
